


The little things

by waitingtobedistributed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, Molly in a deerstalker and little else, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Parent!lock, Post TFP, References to Shibari and BDSM, Sherlolly - Freeform, Snark, Thunderstorms, Unplanned Pregnancy, gratuitous fluff, mollock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 01:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobedistributed/pseuds/waitingtobedistributed
Summary: A collection of drabbles and tumblr prompts. Each chapter is an individual story unconnected to the others.





	1. It's all about the work

 

 

"You have a girlfriend?"  
  
Sherlock's chest visibly puffed out with pride, "Yes I do."  
  
"And it's Molly Hooper? You two are a- a-"  
  
"A couple," Molly replied, somewhat amused by John's confused reaction.  
  
"Come now, John," Sherlock reproached. "The concept isn't a difficult one - even for a dullard such as you.”

John bristled at the insult, but Sherlock carried on unperturbed.

“Some time ago, Molly and I entered into an intimate romantic relationship involving mutual emotional support, shared aspirations for our joint future, and physical affection in the form of-"  
  
"Snuggles," said John, sticking his fingers in his ears in an imitation of his two year old daughter. He squirmed uncomfortably where he perched on the coffee table. "Please just leave it at snuggles, I _reeeeeeally_ don't want any more detail than that."   
  
"Fine," said Sherlock petulantly, "Snuggles. But the purpose of this conversation is to inform you that our.. _snuggling_..has led to Molly becoming pregnant with my child -- which means we'll be marrying sooner than we'd planned."  
  
"Congratulations," Molly beamed, "you're going to be an uncle!"  
  
"And a best man." Sherlock amended, bringing up the subject he'd asked John over to talk about.  
  
"You're getting married?!" This was too much, John could hardly believe what he was hearing.   
  
"Yes," they both confirmed, smiling at each other like the love-struck fools that they were.   
  
Oh this was getting more and more outlandish, John thought. Mr. Alone Is What I Have, the man who a dominatrix - and his far more clever brother - had teased about his code name, _The Virgin_ , was not only shagging Molly Hooper, but had also knocked her up and was now planning to marry her. This couldn't be right. It just couldn't..  
  
"So let me get this straight.” John pointed first to the detective then his pathologist, “Sherlock-married-to-my-work-Holmes is about to commit bigamy with Molly Hooper? I thought you were only interested in _The Work_?"  
  
"Ah," said Sherlock, "well, about that. For confidentiality purposes, MI6 have given all of those connected to Mycroft a code name. His is Antarctica, Mrs Hudson is The Iron Lady, and Molly's is-"  
  
"-The Work." The lady herself supplied.  
  
Seeing John's confusion, Sherlock explained, "It started out as one of my brother's inane jokes. Each time he asked why I spent so much time at Bart's, I told him it was to do work, and, well, it just..sort of..stuck."  
  
John blinked. That couldn't be right. Girlfriends weren't Sherlock's area. "But your code name is The Virgin-"  
  
"Another of my brother's attempts at levity." Sherlock assured with a blush.  
  
"And at irony," Molly grinned, "because he did ' _do_ ' The Work at Bart's. Lots of other places too. In fact we're having quite a lot of-"  
  
John gave her a sideways reproachful look.  
  
"-Snuggles." She finished with a flirtatious between-the-lashes glance at Sherlock.  
  
For a while John just looked from Sherlock to Molly, disbelieving. How, _HOW_ , could he have missed it before? Because now, looking at them both as the held hands and exchanged soft smiles, it was so obvious that they were together.   
  
“So let me get this straight .. each time you told me that you were only interested in The Work, or that your brain would rot without The Work, you were talking about..?”

  
 “Molly, yes. Try to keep up John.”

  
Though he'd been wrong about who Sherlock's choice would be, he had been right about one thing .. Molly clearly completed Sherlock as a human being. Despite the shock, he was so, so happy for them both.  
  
"Fine then," he finally said with a wry smirk, "I'll do the best man thing on two conditions: One, there has to be a stag night-"  
  
"Done," Sherlock agreed.  
  
"-that doesn't end with us both in a holding cell."  
  
"But that was the best part of yours!" Sherlock protested.  
  
"And two, you tell me what my code name is."  
  
"You won't like it.  
  
"Don't care, you have to tell me."  
  
"Only if you promise not to shoot Mycroft."

"You have my word."  
  
"It’s a play on your lack of ability to occupy space vertically.”

“Out with it, Sherlock.”

“You’re called The Hobbit."

After a moment of palpable anger, John said, “Right,” gathering himself together to run down the stairs two at a time, barrelling out on the street and into a cab faster than Mrs Hudson could swing ‘round a stripper pole.

“Looks like we’ll have to find someone else to be Jr.’s godfather,” Sherlock shrugged, because clearly John was on his way to kill someone. _Unfortunate,_ he mused, _but not entirely unexpected._

“Can’t blame him, it is a bit of a cruel name. It was rather mean of your brother,” Molly said.

“Oh that wasn’t Mycroft,” Sherlock smirked, “I picked it.”


	2. Doctor Hooper, in the kitchen, with a deerstalker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally prompted for a drabble challenge by @elennemigo on tumblr, this is dedicated to her with much love. Prompt: _They didn't just find out we're together, they already knew._

 

“No no nono nononononono..” Molly scrambled around Sherlock’s bedroom, picking her clothes up from the floor. Wrapped in a sheet to protect her modesty (Ha! Modesty! Too late for that now!), she pulled her jeans out from under the bed, then jumped on tippy toes to pull her bra down from where it hung off the ceiling light. “You should have warned me that Mrs Hudson had let people in to the flat. I thought you were still making tea!!”

Sherlock, in a similar state of undress, tied his dressing gown around his waist. Flushed from the tips of his ears, all the way down his neck, the blush disappearing beneath the blue silk. He stared at the tiny pathologist, lips pursed, his mouth working around words that wouldn’t form.  “It’s not that bad,” he finally managed to say.

“Not that bad?!” Molly pulled her jumper over her head then realised it was inside out. She pulled it off and started again, “Not that bad? You do realise that I just swanned into your kitchen, naked as a new born baby except for your deerstalker, swinging my knickers over my head, shouting, ‘ _Come and get it, big boy_ ,’ while John Watson, and half of Scotland Yard watched from your living room?”

“Yes, Molly,” he grinned lasciviously, “I was there for the floor show.”

“Oh!” Molly looked like she was going to strangle him, “It’s all well and good for you! I saw the way you strutted past them, a big old smirk of manly pride on your face. Between this- this- little display of mine and the things Janine said about you in the papers last year-”

“I’ve told you before,” Sherlock interrupted, “she made those things up. None of it was true.”

“-they’ll all think you’ve got a harem at the back of your flat and I’m one of your- your-”

“Sexy servant girls?” Sherlock waggled his eyebrows. (He made a mental note: _Suggest sexy servant girl role play to Molly when she calms down_. Amended note: _If she calms down_.)

“Conquests.” Molly finished, a look of thunder on her face. “Some girl who’s only here for a bit of slap and tickle before you dispatch her in favour of the next one queuing up outside.”

“They don’t think that you’re just some casual fling,” he tried to reassure.

“How would you know?” Molly’s jeans had final co-operated with her and she managed to get them up over her hips.

“Because they didn’t just find out we’re together. They already knew we were in a relationship long before you skipped into my kitchen and performed the dance of the seven veils for them.”

Molly stopped mid button, agog. They’d been seeing each other for a while now, but had opted to keep it to themselves. Sherlock was new to this relationship business, and, frankly, Molly was worried that if their friends knew, it would put too much pressure on him, and consequentially the relationship. To be honest, she was also a little worried that his interest in her was a reaction to the whole Phone Call DebacleTM , and once they’d gotten over (1) the shock that they’d both survived it, and (2) that they had (as yet undefined) feelings for each other, things might, well, fizzle out. He’d feel guilty, she’d look like a fool. Neither of them wanted that to happen. So. The logical solution, keep it low key for a bit, see how it went.

“How..?” The question trailed away from a Molly puzzled.

Sherlock took a deep, bracing breath. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep it a secret. Everyone could see how ridiculously happy I was, they all kept asking why.. John thought I was back on the sweeties, he was constantly threatening to have me to pee in a jar,” Sherlock harrumphed. “And, well, the truth is, I wanted to shout it from the roof tops that the woman I’d been in love with for years had finally seen fit to give me a chance. So when Lestrade guessed what was going on I had to tell him, I couldn’t keep it to myself a moment longer.”

“Sherlock..” Molly said softly, rushing forward to stroke his handsome face.

“I’m sorry. I know that we agreed not to, but when you’re as happily in love as I am there’s just no hiding it. Forgive me. Please?”

When he’d put it like that, how could she stay mad at him? Molly stretched up and kissed his lips softly, “Right. Fine. You’re forgiven. But could you please get rid of them out of the flat. I can’t possible face any of them until the embarrassment has worn off a bit.”

“Yes, of course,” he smiled, “although you really should see Anderson as soon as possible.”

“Why on earth would I want to see Phillip Anderson?”

“There was a pool at the Yard. Most of the idiots were betting on me ending up with John, Anderson was the only one who could see that I was head over heels for you. He’s just won a thousand quid, I reckon he owes you some of it.”

“I might just do that,” she smirked.

“And while you’re at it,” Sherlock pulled her closer, “tell him that he’s going to win the other pool too.”

“Oh?” asked Molly, “Which one’s that?”

“The engagement pool. He’s the only one betting on me proposing before the month is out.”


	3. His Life's Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For sammykatz (@dmollyc on tumblr) who was the inspiration for this drabble. This follows on from chapter 1, It's all about the work.

Mycroft Holmes had seen his brother at his very worst. He’d spent more of his 47 years on this Earth terrified for his brother’s safety than he cared to recount. Unfortunately, because of an eidetic memory there were pictures he would never be able to erase.

This, however, would be a memory he could cherish forever.

A very pale, a very dazed, a very happy looking Sherlock swayed as he gracelessly made his way down the corridor to the room where the small party had gathered to wait for news.

Falling rather than sitting into a moulded plastic chair he announced to his and his wife’s family and friends, “It’s a girl. Eleanor Victoria, Ellie for short we think. 6 pounds 2 ounces,” he wiped his brow with a shaking hand, “blonde and blue eyed, with Molly’s nose.  10 fingers, 10 toes. Mother and infant are doing well.”

“And how is the father?” Mycroft asked wryly.

Sherlock threw his head back to look at the ceiling, letting it loll to one side, meeting his brother’s watchful eyes. Making a sound half way between a sob and a laugh, he said, “Rapturous. Elated. Madly in love.”

~*~

By the time visiting hours had ended and the new father was again left alone, his wife, exhausted from the day’s demands and her excitement, had fallen into a hard earned slumber.

Sherlock was secretly pleased.

Since her arrival, Ellie had been surrounded by doting family, careful nurses who checked and re-checked on the new born throughout the day, and of course a smitten Molly, who hadn’t once let the tiny bundle of adorable curls and chubby cheeks out of her sight. Only offering her daughter up for others to hold, to coo over and fuss, when it was absolutely necessary. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to take even one second away from the new mum, for it was she, after all, who had cared for and nurtured the little girl for the last nine months and he could see how hard it was for his wife to now share her with anyone else.

So he’d waited, and eventually his patience was rewarded.

Lifting the swaddled infant from the safety of her sleeping mother’s arms, he carried her to the window and looked out over the streets of London.

“You are a Princess,” he told her, “and this is your kingdom.” Swaying her gently in his arms, his daughter looked at him with eyes so very like his own. Sherlock kissed her button nose, her forehead. “And every Princess is protected by a Knight, whose sworn duty is to lay down his life for the one entrusted to his care. Though there will be times when you won’t believe it’s true, you are now and will always be the very meaning of my existence. It was your mother’s privilege to carry you safely into this world; it will be my privilege to guide you safely through it. I pledge to be your Knight, I am now forever in your service. You, my dearest girl, and your happiness will be my life’s work.”


	4. We could get struck by Lightning, but you want to kiss in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @rooneykmara on tumblr who gave this prompt: _We could get struck by Lightning, but you want to kiss in the rain._
> 
> This has a nod to When Harry Met Sally in there somewhere.

 

The rain that’s been falling in a heavy curtain over London hasn’t stopped all day, and now, well past midnight, the soundtrack of the city has softened from sirens and traffic to a gentle orchestra of percussion instruments – rain hitting concrete, footfall on rain drenched streets, tyres splashing through puddles … There’s no moon in the sky, no stars, only rain clouds and rolling thunder.

Over Westminster there’s a low rumble – like the crash of a fortress wall falling – and a flash of brilliant light that illuminates the whole of SW1.

Caught in the storm, Sherlock is soaked to the bone by a thousand raindrops. With his heart galloping against his ribs, he pulls Molly along through the rain drenched streets – glistening with the light of passing cars – he and she two shades of shadow that weave their way through the last of the summer tourists running for the night bus.

“What are we doing on Westminster Bridge at almost one in the morning, Sherlock?”

“I told you,” he shouts over his shoulder, as they’re sprayed with a fine mist from passing cabs, stopping under the circle of pale light cast by what was once a Victorian gas lamp, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“And it couldn’t wait until the rain stopped?” Molly laughs, her hair catching on the wind.

“No,” Sherlock’s voice is barely audible over the sound of one of those old poles suddenly struck by lightning, immersing the far end of the bridge in a shower of sparks that light up everything that was once dark, like New Year’s Eve fireworks over the Thames. He presses his forehead to hers. There's no mistaking his intention. “Because when you realise that you’re in love with the most wonderful woman in the world, and that you want to spend the rest of your life with her, you want the rest of your life to start right now.”

“You want to-?”

Sherlock pulls a dazed Molly against his chest, his breath ghosting over her lips, his eyes searching hers for some kind of sign that he hasn’t gone mad. “Yes.”

Molly’s heart races as his mouth brushes against hers, “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Doesn’t matter. Whatever you were going to say my answer will be yes."

“I was going to say we could get struck by lightning-”

“A possibility.”

“-but you want to kiss in the rain?”

He takes her face in his hands, “That’s exactly what I want.”

But Molly isn’t listening anymore. Her arms around his neck, she presses her lips against his, half drunk on happiness, and pulls him down.

Sherlock, his eyes closed, lifts her off the ground. Static electricity, Molly, her lips –  _something –_  is making the fine hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end. 

They could be struck by lightning, but he has no fear of the storm. Molly, her kiss like a thunderbolt, has already struck his heart.


	5. Given enough rope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written with OhAine and based on a prompt by likingthistoomuch for a Sherlock & Mrs Hudson friendship fic

 

* * *

 

“I really don’t understand what you’re asking for, Dear.” Said Mrs Hudson, sipping at her tea as she sat in John’s chair, throwing a narrow eyed filthy look at Sherlock, who sat opposite her.

The great detective gave an impatient little squirm, fighting to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. Putting his own tea cup down, he went over it again for his seemingly oblivious landlady. “It’s really quite simple. I need a woman to accompany me to a BDSM club and pretend to be my Domme so that I might surreptitiously observe the other submissives, thereby identifying which of them has been leaving a trail of disembowelled and quite dead FinDommes hanging in elaborately staged shibari suspensions across London. You are a woman. One of sufficient intelligence for the task. And I know for a fact that you have leather bondage gear in that trunk under your bed—”

Mrs Hudson frowned at him, but didn’t deny it.

“—you know how to use both a leash and handcuffs, you’re familiar with the,” he crooked his fingers into air quotes, “ ‘ _scene’_ and you’re rather handy with a gun. Surely all that time you spent swinging around poles in your youth taught you something about rigging. You’d play the part of my Domme admirably. What’s there not to understand?”

“For one, Dear, I’m twice your age.”

Sherlock pressed his hands to his cheeks and formed a perfect O of fake surprise with his lips. “Martha Hudson,” he said, “dare I say it, but that’s spectacularly ageist of you.”

Mrs H gave a weary and exasperated sigh worthy of the Holmes brothers. “We’d hardly be believable as a couple. You have lots of friends your own age, why not ask one of them to go undercover with you?”

Sherlock huffed, “Because it has to be a woman so John, Lestrade or even – _heaven forbid_ – Anderson are of no use to me. That leaves you and Mary, and she’s busy incubating Watson: The Sequel. Eliminating the impossible, what remains is you.”

The old dear arched her brow, giving him a knowing little smirk. “Or Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock puffed out his chest. “Doctor Hooper and I are….well, it wouldn’t be proper. For her I mean. She’s got a reputation to uphold.”

“And I don’t?”

“If anything, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock smiled and tipped his head to her, “making an appearance at a fetish club with a collared submissive half your age, would only enhance yours.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” his landlady admonished, “I don’t know why you can’t just admit that the reason you’re asking me not her is that if Molly Hooper was to put you on a leash and occasionally whip your plump backside you’d be too high on endorphins to get anything else done.”

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest. “If I was to ever allow Doctor Hooper to put me on a leash, it would first have to involve protracted negotiations, it wouldn’t be for a case, and would be in a setting and situation of her choosing, not mine.” Then he grumbled under his breath, “Not that she would ever choose such a thing.”

“You make it all sound so complicated,” she said. “And if you don’t mind me saying, you seem a tad bitter about it too.”

Sherlock harrumphed, “I _am_ complicated and bitter. Not to mention stoic. It’s one of my many charms.”

“Oh Sherlock,” Martha tittered like a school girl, “I don’t think you know what that word means. Or how to count.” She stood and straightened out her pinny, gathering the used tea things onto a tray for washing up. “Give Molly a call. I have a feeling you’ll be glad that you did.”

“Fine,” he said, relenting with a sigh. “But if she agrees she may need to borrow some of your _accoutrements_.” He said the last in a flawless Parisian purr.

“That won’t be necessary, Dear.” She said disappearing back down the stairs, “It was Molly who advised me on how to stock a toy chest. She has quite the collection of her own.”

 


	6. You really are the worst at this comfort thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written with OhAine and requested by likingthistoomuch, who asked for a Mycroft & Sherlock friendship story based on this prompt: _You really are the worst at this comfort thing._
> 
> This one is set the morning after Sherrinford.
> 
> (Also, for those who've been asking, I haven't forgotten about A Kink in the Armour, I'll be posting two new chapters of it in the next couple of weeks.)

* * *

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbled, trying to keep his last frayed nerve under control as he glared at his brother, who stood on the doorstep of John’s flat.

 

Six o’clock on an amber summer’s morning, the dawn chorus bursting to life in riotous, joyful bird-song and oh, how Sherlock wished he’d had a gun to blow every last one of them out of the trees.

 

“I’ve just gotten to sleep after the day from hell, wherein my hitherto unknown sister tried to murder my brother, my best friend, and threatened the life of yet another…acquaintance. I’m currently suffering a hangover from whatever sister dearest pumped into my bloodstream that allowed her to transport me unconscious to the scene where thirty four years ago she  _actually_  murdered my then best friend – you know, the one I convinced myself – with your help, I might add – was a dog – and am currently homeless thanks to an explosion that could have killed me. All of which pales into insignificance because when you rang the doorbell – And why on earth did you do that?? I know for a fact you’ve broken into this flat before so you must have a key – you woke up a teething baby, ensuring that the forty three minutes rest John and I got after Rosie finally went to sleep would be the last before Cabinet Office investigators descended on us in, oooh,” here he made a dramatic show of looking at his wrist watch, “two hours’ time.” Sherlock sighed wearily, “What could possibly be so important that you had to get it off your chest right this minute?”

 

“I came here to offer you comfort “

  

Sherlock blinked. “I’m sorry, _what??”_

  

Mycroft shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rested both hands on his umbrella to support himself as he leaned forward a bit, clearly exhausted. “I would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulties of your life.”

  

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped and his eyes rolled, “You really are the worst at this comfort thing.”

 

“Perhaps,” the elder Holmes suggested, giving Sherlock a pointed look, “I might have more success if I wasn’t trying to have a heart to heart with the brother  _I_  almost lost not twelve hours ago, on the door step of a flat in… _Hackney_ ,” he said the word with such distaste that he may as well have been saying  _off-the-rack suit_. “Doctor Watson has a perfectly serviceable kettle, I suggest you boil it and we can have this conversation like civilised English men, over tea.”

  

Accepting the inevitable with what little grace he had left in him, Sherlock stropped toward the kitchen and ran the tap. Just visible from the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft pull out a handkerchief and wipe down one of John’s kitchen chairs before taking a seat.

 

“I am sorry,” Mycroft said rather softly, pursing his lips, “for what you went through. I know how difficult yesterday’s revelations must have been.”

 

Sherlock stilled and his shoulders stiffened. He kept his back to his brother, “It’s fine. You and John are fine, that’s all that matters.”

 

“Not all, surely,” Mycroft said, again using a voice so gentle that it almost made an exhausted Sherlock want to cry. “There is a third to consider.”

  

“I’m fine too,” Sherlock busied himself with getting milk from the fridge, grateful that in doing so he wasn’t required to turn in his brother’s direction.

  

“Not you.”

  

“Mycroft—” Sherlock warned.

 

“Your  _acquaintance_ —”

 

“—Is fine too. Can we leave this? Please?” He braced himself over the counter, head hung low.

  

“No, I’m afraid we can’t. If we’ve learned anything from yesterday’s events surely it’s that too much has been left unsaid, and for too long.”  Tentatively, he crossed to where Sherlock stood and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Eurus,” he said, “despite her deficiencies, seems to have understood something that even those closest to you did not.”

  

Sherlock couldn’t speak. It took every ounce of strength he had to keep standing. He simply didn’t have enough left inside of him to do both.

  

Mycroft, at length asked, “Did you know before she made you say it?”

  

For the longest time Sherlock stayed there, breathing in and out, in and out, the hand on his shoulder gripping him tighter. His breath shuddered, but he calmed himself. Eventually, he nodded, one sharp dip of his chin.  _Yes_.

  

The hand on his shoulder released and an arm wrapped itself around him, slowly, carefully, joined by a second, Mycroft hugged his baby brother awkwardly. “Then you should be with her, not here sleeping on Doctor Watson’s settee.”

  

“Sentiment, Mycroft? Really?”

  

“Not sentiment. No. Love—”

  

Sherlock barked a wet, bitter laugh. “Don’t say that word. Not after the things I’ve put her through.”

  

“I meant,” said Mycroft, a little superciliousness in his tone to disguise his discomfort with the words, “My love for you.”

  

“You know,” Sherlock said after a few moments, his own voice much softer now, “I might have judged you too harshly. You’re probably not actually the  _worst_  at the comfort thing. Maybe second to last, or third,” he smirked, “but definitely not the worst.”

  

“But I’m not the best either. So,” he said disentangling himself from his little brother, “I’m going to outsource the function.” He gathered his coat and umbrella, heading for the front door he checked his mobile. “Miss Hooper will be here in a few moments.”

  

As he reached the door of the small flat, Sherlock on his heel, Mycroft turned to him. “My motives…” he pursed his lips. “Everything I’ve ever done—”

  

_Protection. Love. For his brother. His parents._

  

The target area for the bullet Sherlock could not – _would not_ – fire was far larger than either of them had ever allowed.

  

 “I’ll come with you,” Sherlock said as Molly’s car pulled up on the street outside. “To speak to Mummy and Father. It’s the least I can do.”

  

Mycroft smiled, tight lipped and a little sad.

  

As they passed on the footpath, one coming, one going, Molly and his brother wordlessly acknowledged each other.

  

Her tired face, pinched and pale, turned to Sherlock at last and his heart began to beat faster, faster.

  

Outside, the birds were still singing. The sun climbed higher and higher in the sky. Behind him, deep in the flat, Rosie began to fuss.

  

Life, relentless, would go on. But with more honesty now.


End file.
